


With Strings Attached

by Neurotoxia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Corsetry, Incest, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Suit Porn, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 07:39:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3561605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The way his little brother carries himself is atrocious at best and offensive at worst, so Mycroft decides to approach the problem by unusual means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Strings Attached

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crookedspoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/gifts).



> I think I have to apologise to [crookedspoon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/profile) for sitting on their gift for so long, hoping it would magically edit itself. As per usual, they played clean-up crew, preventing me from embarrassing myself in public and came up with a better title as well. It's a miracle I can dress and feed myself without their help.

Sherlock slumps and sprawls and sleazes on as many surfaces as he can. He curls into balls and curves around objects. Mycroft on the other hand has always known about the importance of posture, the grace of a straight spine and the elegance of standing up to full height.

Seeing Sherlock drop his shoulders and fold himself onto sofas pains his brother who knows what kind of figure Sherlock could present if he straightened up, pulled his shoulder blades back, pushed out his chest a bit and lifted his chin. It is a travesty to see Sherlock’s natural grace tainted by his laziness.

Mycroft feels compelled to act, teach Sherlock how to use his potential. Hand out some discipline.

It’s how he ends up presenting Sherlock with a slim box at one of their late-night meetings, Sherlock already in the nude, lounging on the Egyptian cotton sheets Mycroft lines his bed with, the muted light from the Tiffany lamp on the nightstand casting soft angles over Sherlock’s face and body. It tempers the sharpness of his cheekbones, his jaw and his ribs without having them lose their prominence. At nineteen, Sherlock has just lost the last markers of youth, no sign of the full cheeks of childhood or the gangly incoordination of the growth spurts in his teenage years. Mycroft admits to himself he likes to indulge in watching Sherlock from the armchair when he’s still fully dressed – it renders Sherlock’s naked form all the more tempting.

Sherlock’s curiosity is piqued, but he is unwilling to show it (his brother still does not admit there’s very little he can hide from Mycroft), lifts the lid of the box in synch with his left eyebrow. He doesn’t know what it’s supposed to mean and Mycroft won’t tell him. Let him deduce it – he likes that so much after all.

”What is _that?_ ”, Sherlock asks. 

Mycroft simply smiles behind the rim of the glass of brandy he’s holding. He can already see the intrigue building.

”Lacing me up now?” Sherlock traces the ridges, the path of crisscrossing strings.

Mycroft’s tastes are simple, but luxurious. Handmade to Sherlock’s measurements, matte black fabric with a hint of dark grey pinstripe. Simple strings of buttery leather at the back, small silver hooks and eyes at the front. Sturdy and tight when properly closed and laced, not much yield. The tailor followed his specifications to the letter.

”Your posture is atrocious. I’ve decided to intervene while there’s still room for improvement.” Mycroft takes a sip and fixes Sherlock with a stern glance.

”My posture is not atrocious,” Sherlock scoffs, but Mycroft sees the challenge in his eyes – the possibility of limitation, both in movement and in oxygen. His brother always delighted in pushing his body (transport, as he calls it). So does Mycroft.

Mycroft places the glass on the antique table to his right, the dregs sloshing at the bottom. He beckons his brother to come over. Sherlock contemplates resisting for resistance’s sake, but Mycroft doesn’t expect to hear any protesting, given that Sherlock is unable to resist satisfying his curiosity and his eyes are brimming with it. So predictable. Mycroft finds it amusing how easy it is to manipulate Sherlock if one has the right tools.

As expected, Sherlock doesn’t raise a fuss and crawls off the bed, dragging the box along. He walks over to Mycroft’s armchair, footfalls muffled by the thick carpet on the hardwood floor. Persian, top quality. Sherlock vomited on it once, two years ago after having got drunk on Mycroft’s best brandy for some mindless ‘experiment’. Mycroft gave his housekeeper a pay rise after she managed to get the stain out.

Mycroft raises a hand to Sherlock’s hip, thumb caressing the protruding bone. Sherlock is only an inch shorter than him, the (likely final) growth spurt last year closing the height difference between them. His brother never liked being the one lagging, neither in age nor in height. He is visibly satisfied with being able to tower over him while Mycroft is still seated. 

The look changes to one of keen interest as soon as Mycroft removes the article from the box, blood red wrapping tissue rustling under his fingers. He smoothes it over with his hand, feeling for imperfections and finding none. Remarkable quality, but Mycroft expects no less than the very best. 

He pushes Sherlock a few steps back and stands up, closing in on Sherlock who has a dust of colour rising on his cheeks.

“Arms,” Mycroft commands and Sherlock obliges, raising them to give Mycroft space to wrap the corset around his back, hooking it in place in the front. Even without the laces properly tied, it looks tantalising on Sherlock, the stark contrast between black silk and white skin accentuating just the right places. 

“Turn around,” he says just as Sherlock moves his fingers to trace the material himself. “Keep it in place with your hand.”

Sherlock splays his fingers across the front, thumb tracing near imperceptible circles over the transition between one of the stiff rods sewn into the corset and soft material. Behind him, Mycroft gathers the laces between his fingers, pulling them taut. Sherlock gasps softly and stands up straighter, Mycroft’s lips curling in a smirk.

“Good,” Mycroft whispers into Sherlock’s ear and gooseflesh breaks out all over Sherlock’s arms. A few words of well-placed praise and Sherlock melts away under him. So starved for approval.

Mycroft pulls at the laces again, constricting Sherlock’s chest. His brother is almost vibrating with energy, adrenalin coursing through him, reacting to the reduced oxygen, to being tied up, constricted.

He tightens the string in the upper half, leaving Sherlock enough room to breathe, but just so. Taking deep breaths isn’t possible anymore under the confines. Sherlock is panting, both from the lack of oxygen and arousal.

Mycroft fastens them securely, then smoothes his hands along Sherlock’s sides, the corset slimming his waistline and pronouncing his hips. He rests his hands on the junction between the two, pleased how his hands fit into the slight indent, as if it were made for him to hold onto, keeping Sherlock in place on his lap or before him on his knees.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock whimpers as Mycroft grips his sides hard and noses the hair at Sherlock’s nape. Sandalwood and thyme. Mycroft’s own shampoo.

He puts a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back and urges him forward a couple of steps so Mycroft can observe it in full detail. Sherlock finally stands up straight, shoulders pushed back – appearing broader with the slimmer waist. It accentuates Sherlock’s bottom, shaping it invitingly. Mycroft takes a second appreciating it: from his chin held high, to Sherlock’s straight shoulders and spine and down to where wetness is glistening between his cheeks. Sherlock has been diligent tonight and prepared himself in the bathroom as Mycroft instructed.

“Much better already, the way you carry yourself.”

“Yes, this is all about my posture,” Sherlock says, words ripe with sarcasm.

Mycroft chooses not to rise to the bait and instead traces the outline of the garment with his index finger. Sherlock is squirming with the impatience, tested by standing still for so long and yet determined to keep standing.

“Oh, this is stupid!” Sherlock hisses, but what Mycroft sees of his face belies his words.

His cheeks are flushed, eyes gleaming with anticipation. When Mycroft drops his gaze downward, he sees that Sherlock’s arousal has grown into full hardness. He feels the heat spiking in his own groin.

“You will see the benefits in due time,” Mycroft murmurs and sits back down in his armchair, his growing erection tenting the stone grey wool of his trousers.

Sherlock snorts, but his breath hitches when Mycroft reaches out to run his fingers over the cleft between Sherlock’s arse cheeks, two fingers dipping into the slick and prepared hole with ease.

“Oh,” Sherlock whimpers. A sound that is close to music in Mycroft’s ears.

Mycroft moves his fingers in and out of Sherlock at a leisurely pace, alternating between pushing in deep and shallow thrusts. It was bound to drive his brother mad fast. He loved and hated to be teased and Mycroft delighted in the paradox, taking Sherlock to the brink and back.

Sherlock starts to quiver, fingers curled into a fist at his side. He pants and moans, every delightful noise he makes accentuated by shallow gasps. Mycroft’s trousers are becoming more and more uncomfortable as a result. With his unoccupied right hand, he unzips his fly and pushes his pants aside, pulling his erection free from its confines.

“God, Mycroft – please,” Sherlock whines and turns his head to look at Mycroft with glassy, feverish eyes.

“Very well,” Mycroft says and removes his fingers, settling both hands around Sherlock’s corseted hips.

He tugs him back and pulls him down into his lap. Sherlock squirms on his thighs, trying to push against Mycroft’s erection, eager to take him in. Mycroft digs his fingers into Sherlock’s hips, forcing him to remain in place – seeing Sherlock struggle is nearly as satisfactory to Mycroft as the act itself. Most of the time, Mycroft prefers not to participate beyond the use of his hands. And when he feels the need to involve himself more, it is all the more delectable. 

Mycroft wraps a hand around Sherlock’s neck, putting light pressure on his trachea, reminding Sherlock of the scarcity of oxygen.

“Be still,” he commands and Sherlock ceases his struggle immediately, spine rigid. Under his fingertips, Mycroft feels the rapid pulse in Sherlock’s veins. 

“Good, you do know how to listen,” Mycroft murmurs into Sherlock’s ear and removes his fingers from Sherlock’s neck, ghosting over his brother’s shoulders and the soft, vulnerable flesh of his inner arms before taking hold of his own prick.

He nudges Sherlock’s hips up a fraction and slips into him with relative ease – Sherlock has really been thorough this time. The friction sends shivers up Mycroft’s spine and he tightens his hands on Sherlock’s thighs. Mycroft hears Sherlock release his breath with a pleasurable sigh.

For a moment, Mycroft holds Sherlock still, enjoying the constriction around his prick. His own heartbeat is picking up, racing to match Sherlock’s. 

“Move. I’m not doing all the work,” he hisses into Sherlock’s ear and moves his hands up to his brother’s slimmed waist, fingers settling in the concave created by string and silk.

Sherlock has barely enough leverage to create friction, but he is nothing if not determined (stubborn is a more apt description, but Mycroft is in a generous mood tonight) and manages to move at a languorous pace, thigh muscles flexing against Mycroft’s trousers.

Soon, Sherlock’s breath becomes shallower, more urgent as the movements become more exhausting. At first, Mycroft doesn’t help, he just sits still and enjoys watching Sherlock work and send spikes of pleasure through Mycroft’s body. His hands remain on Sherlock’s hips, just occasionally trailing his fingers under the edge of the corset where Sherlock’s skin has become damp with sweat. A few curls stick to the back of Sherlock’s neck, darkened by moisture.

After a while, Sherlock is noticeably struggling, the muscles in his arms shaking with subtle tremors from using them as leverage. He tries to chase the pleasure, but Sherlock’s body is becoming tired.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock pleads under his breath and Sherlock so rarely asks for anything nicely, Mycroft can’t say no when he does.

Mycroft pushes up into Sherlock, who’s already struggling for breath, and grips into the lacing at the back of the corset and pulls it tighter, as tight as he can and he hears Sherlock gasp his name. With his left hand on Sherlock’s prick, it only takes a few more strokes and Sherlock is coming, spilling over Mycroft’s hand and falling back against Mycroft’s chest, sweat-slicked face resting against the side of Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft feels Sherlock’s shallow, irregular breaths as he keeps driving into him, his own completion approaching fast and hard.

He empties himself into Sherlock with a quiet moan (the only sound he allows himself) and only then untangles his fingers from the leather strips. In the post-orgasmic haze, he reaches forward and unhooks the front of the corset before Sherlock passes out from the lack of oxygen.

Sherlock takes a few gasping breaths, chest heaving. He slumps back against Mycroft, who will definitely have to change into a new suit for the video conference in two hours. This one is too creased now and most likely stained as well.

His brother makes no attempt to move and Mycroft allows him to catch his breath for a bit. It wouldn’t do if Sherlock passed out from getting up too quick. However, there is only so much post-coital closeness Mycroft allows. Sherlock radiates enough heat to make Mycroft in his near full suit uncomfortable.

Gently, Mycroft tries to extricate himself from under Sherlock, maneuvering his brother’s limp body far enough to the side that he can slip out and stand up. Sherlock seems entirely unwilling to move and falls back into the now empty armchair, curling up on the seat cushion like a cat.

Trying to straighten his suit is entirely useless, it’s wrinkled and damp, and Sherlock has left a wet spot on his thigh. Mycroft’s nose crinkles in distaste, but he couldn’t exactly blame his brother for making a mess of the suit. He’d have the housekeeper bring it to the dry cleaner’s in the morning and hope they would be able to salvage the delicate wool. Mycroft tucks himself in and loosens his tie a bit.

Sherlock seems intent on sleeping in the armchair. His brother can fall asleep on nearly any surface, but he would be in a horrible mood in the morning if Mycroft let him sleep in an uncomfortable position like this. He bends over Sherlock and cards his fingers through the shock of curls. 

“Sherlock, get into the bed,” he says in a low pitch. Sherlock merely grumbles in return, something that faintly sounds like ‘go away.’

Mycroft sighs and lifts Sherlock in his arms. It’s not as easy as it used to be, but Sherlock is still far from heavy, even if he gained a bit of muscle. Sherlock makes a sound of protest, but lets Mycroft half-steer, half-carry him over to the four-poster bed. Before he drops onto the mattress, Sherlock slings an arm around Mycroft’s neck and drags him into a lazy kiss with a bit too much teeth (Sherlock’s habit of biting refuses to go away), but Mycroft doesn’t draw back. Sherlock has been exceptionally well-behaved tonight after all – he deserves a treat. 

“Under the covers,” Mycroft mutters as he draws back the bedding for Sherlock to climb in.

Sherlock just hums and moves under the sheets, dragging the duvet up to his chin, eyelids already closing. Mycroft threads his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, massaging the scalp with light pressure.

“Are you not coming to bed?” Sherlock mumbles into the pillow, suppressing a yawn.

“Later. I have a conference call to make.”

“More space for me then.”

Mycroft feels the urge to roll his eyes but doesn’t, instead caressing Sherlock’s face a final time before righting himself again. He has another suit ready in the next room – it’s always best to be prepared when Sherlock is near.

Mycroft turns on his heel and retreats towards the door, the soft thud of his footsteps muffled by the carpet. Before he reaches for the door handle, the blankets rustle.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes?” Mycroft looks over his shoulder to see Sherlock with a smirk on his face.

“Hold onto that corset,” Sherlock says and without further ado, turns his back on Mycroft, burrowing under the blankets again.

“Certainly,” Mycroft responds, pressing the door handle. “It’s useful to have restrains for you at hand.”

With a smile of his own, he leaves the room, pretending not to notice the two-fingered salute Sherlock waves in his direction.


End file.
